


million dollar question

by skylights



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Humour, M/M, Q has a hard life, prompt-fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 16:09:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skylights/pseuds/skylights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q doesn’t bend for anything and Q certainly doesn’t break for anyone, especially when it comes to stubborn double-ohs intent on making Q’s life hell, so when Q wakes up on a Saturday morning to 12 new texts from Bond and the incessant ringing of his flat’s doorbell, Q makes sure to bring a gun to answer the door.</p><p>“Delivery for one…Quabik Quadree?”</p><p>Q feels the weight of the Glock 19 in the pocket of his dressing gown and sincerely wonders whether to shoot the delivery man or himself.</p><p>(or, that fic where everyone wants to know Q's name and stupid things happen in the process)</p>
            </blockquote>





	million dollar question

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [Restricted Work] by [arhkym](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arhkym/pseuds/arhkym). Log in to view. 



> For the lovely [drelfina](http://archiveofourown.org/users/drelfina/pseuds/drelfina) who asked for "Bond trying to find out Q's name, and Q giving hm all sorts of Ridiculous Fake Names" :D A prompt fill that...kinda got out of hand ajdsajajshdg I hope this is what you were kinda hoping for!
> 
> Read the [Mandarin translation here](http://www.blogbus.com/aibaki-logs/239180622.html) by aibaki :)
> 
> Also check out the [Russian translation here](https://ficbook.net/readfic/3831752) by Estiu!

It starts, as most silly things do, with a Saturday night at the pub.

"You know what, boss?” sighs Marcus as he peers at Q over the creamy head of his stout. 

“What?” Q is cradling his own pint with significantly less melancholy, even if there’s a nice buzz just about starting under his skin. “Out with it, Marcus.”

“Isn’t it...actually a bit unfair that you know everyone's names and we don't even know yours?” 

This is Q branch's bi-weekly get together and tonight, they're watching Arsenal get their arses handed to them on-screen in some mangy little pub with overpriced beer. To be quite honest, Q cares for football just about as much as he cares for expensive alcohol (which is to say, not very much), but in the name of maintaining team morale, some sacrifices have to be made.

“S’right,” Issac pipes in, slurring a little. He has some of the cleanest coding that Q has ever seen, but one bottle in and the man can’t even tie his shoelaces right. "We've…we’ve got the double-ohs handing out their names like...what do you call those small…cardy things…”

“Business cards?” Q offers kindly.

“Right! Those! Like business cards and here we are, three years on without so much as a peep on that front from you." A hiccup and Issac grins, lopsidedly. “It’s either Q or boss–“

“I keep telling you that I also answer to Grand Overlord Supreme,” Q sighs, mostly to himself even as Issac stumbles on.

“–and what’s with all the mystery, hey?”

There's a round of semi-drunken agreement from their corner of the pub and a few people thump their glasses on the table in a show of blatant approval, though Q thinks some of them might have mistaken the commotion for another round of drinks being ordered.

"Come on then," Marcus is saying as Q sips his lager for appearance’s sake. "Out with it, boss, it's not like you can keep it a secret forever."

“Thank you very much for your input, Marcus, but after three years with you lot–“ Q sets his pint down with a serene smile, “–I’m inclined to think I can. And I'm sorry to disappoint, but no outing of any kind is scheduled for tonight."

This if course, leads to numerous variations of _but why_ and _this is so unfair_ being noisily aired.

"I'm willing to bet good money that you're just embarrassed because your name's really odd," one of Q's best security programmers pipes up from her end of the table once the dissent has cleared enough for individual people to be heard once again. 

“And _I’m_ willing to bet that it’s actually really, really dull,” someone else chimes in and there’s a few scattered murmurs of agreement. “Kind of like Bond's, but even more boring than that.”

More agreement this time, table-wide, and Q just leans back into the badly padded back of his chair with a growing smile on his face. If Q hadn't been born Q, then maybe he would feel a hint of guilt over the following act of manipulation, but seeing how the Almighty did in fact designate Q to be himself, the only thing that Q feels is the semblance of a scheme starting to form.

“Well then,” Q says once everyone has come to a unanimous, drunken agreement on how James Bond is a particularly unimaginative name. “With regards to the ones who were so eager to part with their hard-earned wages before this, I don't suppose any of you intend to put their money where their mouth is?”

A moment of rare silence before Marcus tentatively raises his hand.

"Yes, Marcus?”

“Ten quid?”

A flurry of hands join in.

“I’ll take thirty for four tries,” offers Q after doing a quick headcount, but that’s only because watching people fail multiple times is incredibly fun.

  


* * *

  


By the time Wednesday rolls around, there is an entire screen in Q branch dedicated to an ever-growing list of names that Q apparently does not legally possess, and by Friday evening, a sign up sheet has somehow made it's way onto the wall of Q's office.

It spans 2.5 pages by 3pm.

“So this is your idea of boosting branch morale?” Moneypenny asks when she drops by with top-secret files that need digitising. “By stealing money from your minions?” This week’s prize money is nearing a neat seven hundred quid and unsurprisingly, branch cohesion has never been better. After all, nothing quite says teamwork like retrieving part of your rent money back from your boss. Q has been looking at travel sites all weekend.

“I wouldn’t go as far as to call it _stealing_ ,” Q sniffs as he accepts the files and casts a cursory glance over them. “On the contrary, it’s a perfectly legitimate way of paying for my cruise to the Caribbean this winter.” A document detailing MI6’s involvement in Afghanistan gets shuffled behind a very well-researched report on 007’s online shopping habits. “I’m just their branch head, Moneypenny. Who am I to decline consenting adults who want to willingly part with their money?”

Moneypenny looks unconvinced, even more so when Q smiles in the way that makes most people either very glad that they’re not adept enough with electronics to be put in Q branch or very upset over the fact that they _are_ adept enough with electronics to be put in Q branch. Either way, it’s the sort of smile that usually works to Q’s advantage.

“You know," Q says a little wistfully when Moneypenny looks like she's about to leave. “One would expect more from my branch's best and brightest, but so far they're not even close to finding out the real thing. I mean, how hard can it _be_?"

"You don't say.”

"It's not like I'm Rumpelstiltskin or anything,” Q continues on as he stacks the papers on his desk into a neat pile.”It’s just a name, not rocket science.” The next time Q looks up at Moneypenny, there’s a look that most people, upon their first encounter, mistakenly interpret as pure innocence.

“I don't suppose you'd fancy a go? Just thirty quid for your first entry of four names and ten pounds per name after that.”

By the time Moneypenny does leave, Q is quite sure he can already _taste_ those pina coladas.

  


* * *

  


"Care to explain what this is?"

"Hmm?" Q looks up to see Bond, fresh in from the ends of the earth and bearing…nothing salvageable, as usual. "Oh, yes. That.” Bond is standing in front of the sign-up sheet with a look of pure, unguarded curiosity on his face. “I’ve typed up instructions on the bottom to save me time on the explaining.”

Two minutes later, Q is only mildly surprised when Bond hands him thirty pounds.

“And your entries, 007?”

"I'll have to think about it," is all Bond says before turning to leave. "It says I have at least till October, doesn’t it?”

"That it does, and it’s winner takes all." Q pockets the notes and watches Bond leave without another word, though he does notice how Bond is wearing that trademark smirk of his on the way out.

It’s only two hours later in the cafeteria that Q realises his wallet is missing.

  


* * *

  


"It was a good effort, on your part,” Q says to Bond when Bond slouches back into Q branch. Q is eating a granola bar and sorting through his inbox one handed. “I’d be impressed if not for the fact that Sally from Accounting already tried that on Thursday.” The wrapper is balled up neatly to be thrown into the bin under Q’s table before Q turns to face Bond directly. “Also, please do bear in mind that if I find even one item out of place in my wallet, your next gun will be sporting a pink leopard print casing."

"Sounds bad for camouflage,” comes the dry reply as Bond drops Q’s wallet onto the table. There’s an undeniable air of exasperation around him and Q thinks he could breathe it in all day long. "John Smith? Really? On _all_ your cards?"

"Company issued." Q doesn't get to be this smug with 007 very often, so no one can fault him if he's practically wallowing in sweet, sweet self-satisfaction. “And it corresponds to all the relevant computer records as well, if you were wondering.”

"I wasn't," Bond growls and Q relishes the taste of the words “On the bright side, at least you have until October," leaving his mouth when Bond stalks out the door.

  


* * *

  


To Bond's credit, Bond doesn't actually stop trying after that. If anything, Bond only tries harder and Q…well, Q considers turning his five day cruise into a two week one.

The next time Bond walks into Q’s office, Bond is carrying an honest to god _file_.

“Did you bully one of my employees to print out the complete list for you?”

“I did say please.” Bond flips the file open on Q’s table and on the very top is a list with ten new names for Q’s perusal.

“You’re taking this quite seriously, aren’t you?” Q asks, amused as he scans the frankly, very interesting list before relieving Bond of yet another hundred pounds. He didn’t even _know_ there were that many names that could start with the letter Q.

"You do know you can't keep this up forever, right?” Bond is fitting his wallet back into the back pocket of his trousers and his face is considerably darker than it was a minute ago. Maybe Q is drawing too fast a conclusion here, but Q thinks it might have something to do with how Bond’s wallet is also considerably slimmer than it was when he first came in. “At some point, someone’s going to have to hit the right name.”

“Or October will come around and I’ll be sunning myself on a cruise deck in the middle of the Atlantic,” Q points out as he makes a copy of Bond’s list. The original he drops into the shredder next to his desk. “The general opinion on Tripadvisor is that the Bahamas is quite lovely during that time of the year.”

Bond mutters something about Q waiting because he’s not done with this yet, but Q doesn’t quite hear him over the sound of the shredder whirring in the background.

  


* * *

  


As things turn out, Q doesn’t have to wait for too long.

“Would anyone care to explain–” M demands as he walks into Q branch two days later, “–just what in the name of all things sacred is going on in here?”

Q looks up from the exploding cufflinks he had been working on and simultaneously, fifteen other people make it a point to look down, seemingly very invested in their current work. Q notes with faint amusement that he hasn’t seen so much concentration go into paper-clip arranging for a very, very long time.

“Sir?” Q asks as he leads M into his office. It’s too early to tell, but Q thinks he might have to break out his stash of good Ceylonese loose leaf for this drop-by to go well. 

“I have been led to believe,” M says slowly once he’s taken the seat Q offers him. “That there is…a wager of sorts happening at your department?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“And 007 has involved himself in said wager?”

“That is correct, sir.”

“Well then, Q.” M leans back in his chair, fingers steepled together. “Seeing that I woke up this morning to find James Bond in my kitchen, drinking my coffee and asking me for permission to access your personal files, I can only take that the wager has something to do with you?”

The good loose leaf tea it is, then.

  


* * *

  


M lets the wager go on, but only after Q grudgingly agrees to part with 40% of his winnings, which in retrospect, isn’t all that bad a deal on Q’s end since M _is_ the only person around that has access to Q’s real name. As blackmail and bribery attempts go, Q thinks he got off quite intact with this one.

“Ah, Bond,” Q says in greeting when Bond comes in for what is now their quasi-regular meeting where Bond loses money and Q considers upgrading his room on the Royal Caribbean to a suite. “What do you have for me this fine morning?”

“Things from the Beijing operation,” Bond replies bluntly. A motley assortment of concealed weaponry is dumped onto Q’s table with little fanfare and Q picks through it with interest, quite happy to note that only a few items have been singed beyond recognition. “Or at least, most of the things.”

“Yes, good, very good.” Q picks up a serrated blade that he thinks he might be able to reuse. “No names for me today, 007?”

“No.”

“Not even one?” Q looks up then, surprised. “It’s not in your nature to give up so easily, Bond.”

“I didn’t say anything about giving up, I just said I didn’t have anything for you today.”

“Huh.” Q goes back to shifting through the charred remains on his table. “Well if that’s the case, there’s no use in standing around here, is there? You can run along now, 007. I’ll have someone call for you when I’m free to do your next fitting.”

When Bond turns on his heel to leave, Q makes it a point to check all his pockets for any potentially missing personal items and yes, they’re all there on his person. Wallet, keys, mobile, check check and check.

Except…

“Bond, you sneaky little bastard,” Q mutters and hopes to god Bond doesn’t accidentally chip his scrabble mug.

  


* * *

  


Thankfully, Bond returns Q’s mug before Q gets thoroughly sick of cardboard-flavoured tea and disposable cups that go soggy after fifteen minutes.

“I hope you had a mind to wash it before giving it back?” Q asks politely as he graciously accepts his mug back. “Lord knows what the boys at Biotech get up to in those labs.”

Bond pulls a copy of what Q presumes are lab results from the inside of his suit jacket and though he doesn’t quite slam them down on the table, the sound it makes upon contact with the burnished face of Q’s tabletop is quite impressive all the same.

In the personal details column, someone has highlighted the name **QUETZLCOATL QUENTIN MCQUEER** in bright pink ink. Under Q’s orders, Biotech has even kindly printed a smiley face at the very end of it, an understated :) that Q hopes Bond appreciated when he picked the results up.

“It was worth a try,” Q offers kindly to Bond’s retreating back. “And I’m not even counting this as an entry.”

Trust Bond to find a way to slam glass sliding doors.

  


* * *

  


Things only get more interesting after that. In the span of one week, Q receives emails from his bank, insurance company, landlord and even the British Home Office requesting he confirm his personal details. 

One of these is unfortunately legitimate and Q has to hurriedly hack into Barclays to delete his reply, least his savings account end up under the unfortunate name of Harry Dick Mann.

  


* * *

  


“Maybe you should go for a more personal touch,” Q suggests unhelpfully when Bond shows up once again. “Think about your strengths and use those instead, because really now, you keep forgetting what I do for a living.” 

“Your landlady was terrifying,” is all Bond says.

“Mrs.Chow does tend to have that effect on most people,” Q muses. “Oh, and on the topic of personal touches–,” Bond looks like he’s two syllables away from making a comment that will no doubt, be in very poor taste, “–please do bear in mind, that my family members will probably not take too kindly to being kidnapped and tortured for information.”

“So are you suggesting I kidnap and torture you instead?”

“Well that really depends on how much you want that five hundred quid of yours back.”

Q smiles, secure in the knowing that he’s slowly draining Bond of his retirement fund and Bond just looks appropriately scandalised at the torture suggestion, though Q wouldn’t put it past Bond to go out looking for chloroform later on. 

Maybe he should send up a reminder to Biotech to double lock their labs tonight, just to be safe.

  


* * *

  


Either because Bond is too much of a gentleman to physically harm his own colleague or because Biotech just has really good security, there is no kidnapping or torture of any kind. There is, however, a double-oh agent who insists on being insufferable every chance he gets, which is to say, most of Q’s working hours and then some.

“Stephen with a ph?”

“Bond, eyes on the road please.”

The Aston Martin veers perilously close to the cliff edge, tires screeching all the while and Q swears expressively under his breath. Those were _brand new_.

“Stefan with an f, perhaps?”

“Bond, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed the three men on motorbikes who are trying to shoot you dead, but can we please have this conversation later?”

“It can’t be Steven because that was already out by the first week…” Bond trails off to make a sharp turn and sudden staccato-beat gunfire bursts through the speakers, Q wincing as he turns the volume down a few notches. “I don’t suppose you have Italin ancestry? Stefano?”

“Bond I swear to god, if you drive off that cliff, I won’t even bother to send a body retrieval unit.”

“So touchy,” sighs Bond. “Maybe it’s because I’m getting close? Italians and their tempers.” The left rearview mirror of the Aston Martin explodes in a shatter of glass and metal. “That would explain a lot, actually.”

“My family is from Kent, you complete and utter idjit. Now for the last time, 007, _watch the road_.”

  


* * *

  


It doesn’t stop when Bond comes back. If anything, it gets worse, Bond seemingly having taken Q’s personal touch comment to heart and ending up doing the thing he does best: annoying Q out of his skull until Q finally admits defeat.

“There’s really no reason for you to keep doing this anymore, you know,” Q attempts when Bond has made it quite clear that he has no intention of stopping his name-guessing efforts despite October having arrived. The first of that month had dawned with £3000 in his bank account and approximately 500 pages worth of baby names taped to the every surface in Q’s office, most of both courtesy of one James Bond. “You’re not going to gain anything from it.” 

“Are you really sure about that?” Bond gingerly picks his way over the flurry of papers on the floor to give Q the remains of his grapple hook from the Brunei mission. “I hope you haven’t forgotten that though I have no monetary incentive anymore, I also don’t have a monetary deterrent.”

A list of names starting with J floats down from the ceiling and Q starts to wonder if he can pay Bond to stop.

  


* * *

  


When Bond isn’t overseas being insufferable on the communications system, Bond is now being insufferable around Q instead. 

In the restaurants that Q frequents. 

(“I’m sorry sir, but it says here your telephone number has been used to make a reservation for a…Mr. Jack Goff?”

“I…what?”)

In the shops.

(“Paging for one Mr. Dick Swett, Mr. Dick Swett please claim your wallet from lost and found.”

“God _dammit_.”)

One time, Bond is _even in Q’s flat_.

“Bond,” groans Q when he wakes up one morning to find Bond eating cereal out of the pack at his breakfast table. “I thought you only did house calls for the Ms.”

“Have to be fair to all the letters, don’t I?” Bond pops another wheat crunchie into his mouth and chews loudly, quite determined to be as ostentatious as possible at 7 in the morning. “You did say to give it a personal touch. Did you like your Swett cards? Got a professional forger to do them.”

Q ignores Bond in favour of getting some hot water from the dispenser, only to find that Bond has used it all for his coffee.

  


* * *

  


The text messages start not too long after that. Every hour or so, without fail, Q gets one text with one name.

 _QuiQui_ reads one at 1:23am.

 _Quenby_ arrives at 2:30am, followed by _Quirtsquip_ , _Qing Yuan_ and _Qimat_ in quick succession, the last one Q misreading as _kumquat_ twice because it’s five in the bloody morning.

  


* * *

  


Q doesn’t bend for anything and Q certainly doesn’t break for anyone, especially when it comes to stubborn double-ohs intent on making Q’s life hell, so when Q wakes up on a Saturday morning to 12 new texts from Bond and the incessant ringing of his flat’s doorbell, Q makes sure to bring a gun to answer the door.

“Delivery for one…Quabik Quadree?”

Q feels the weight of the Glock 19 in the pocket of his dressing gown and sincerely wonders whether to shoot the delivery man or himself.

“Oh, bring it here.”

“Cool name, by the way.”

Q sighs as he signs off as Q and one minute later, he’s left holding a box of…oh. 

Now _this_ is new.

  


* * *

  


“I hope you didn’t try to shoot the delivery man?” Q walks into his office to find Bond already sitting in his chair, feet up on his table. “Or at the parcel, for that matter. That would have been quite messy.”

“Feet off the table, Bond.”

“Not even a thank you? They were gluten-free.”

“If that’s your way of bribing me to give you my name, then you’d better try again.”

“Noted. Fifty cupcakes, not the way to your heart. Would you like roses instead? Delivered directly to your office?”

“Are you trying to _embarrass_ me into giving you my real name?”

Bond shrugs and Q genuinely fears for his reputation, because as good as those cupcakes actually were, he can’t exactly dispose of flowery evidence the same way, can he? Mrs. Chow already thinks him mad for showing up at her door at 9am with 45 cupcakes. 

99 roses will get him evicted for sure.

  


* * *

  


The morning that Q decides that he’s going to finally book that cruise of his, his computer at Q branch refuses to accept his log-in details. 

“Bugger,” Q mutters under his breath as the system keeps rejecting his username and password. At this point, Q can do one of two things. One involves fifty minutes of hacking into his own systems and the other involves picking up his mobile to yell at Bond.

Bond picks up on the first ring.

“Hello, this is tech support,” Bond purrs before Q can start on any yelling and Q almost hangs up in disgust. 

“Bond, I don’t want to know how many of my staff you intimidated to achieve this, but unless you appreciate being handed nothing but a toothpick for your next mission, you will tell me what my username and password is right now.”

“Rude,” sniffs Bond, but he gives Q his new details all the same. 

This time, Q really does hang up in disgust.

  


* * *

  


Every time Q changes his log in details, Bond inexplicably finds a way to switch them back to something even more horrifying than the last, and since none of Q’s staff seem to be sporting black eyes or painful bruises anywhere on their person, Q can only assume that Bond is using metaphorical carrots instead of sticks to keep up with Q’s desperately evolving security system. Short of locking everyone out of the system for the rest of his tenure at MI6 or choking each of his staff until one of them confesses to letting Bond into the system, there really isn’t much that Q can do.

“You’re a liability to security, 007,” Q growls when he calls Bond up on Tuesday morning to demand his new username and password. “I should have you taken out back and shot.”

“I’d like to see you try,” is all Bond says, smug. “By the way, that was sexxi with two xs.”

“Go to hell, Bond.”

“But I haven’t even told you the password yet.”

On the day that Q has a video-conference with his American counterpart in the CIA, Q logs in with the username sexxiqq69, password _enemas_R*kool*123_.

  


* * *

  


It’s only after Q consents to equip Q branch with a £800 coffee machine, stock the branch pantry with designer tea biscuits and bring back strip poker nights that the information leak stops. 

“I’m surrounded by traitors,” Q grumbles as he reaches into a tin of Godiva biscuits. “Should have fired the lot of you before I gave you all level 2 security clearance.” 

“Sorry boss, did you say something?”

While it might take one member of Q branch to write codes of mass destruction, it takes fifteen to operate a coffee machine and ten minutes after Q has retreated to his office with the biscuit tin for company of the edible and non-traitorous kind, a resounding cheer goes up from the pantry. 

The first cappuccino has apparently been produced.

  


* * *

  


“This is really good coffee,” Bond says when he walks in holding a cappuccino and a mug of what Q presumes is tea. Today is Q’s last day at the office before he’s off for a very overdue break and Q literally has mountains of work to clear before then, Bond hanging around him like a persistent fly not helping things along in any way. “But because you are a peasant with no good taste, I brought you tea instead.”

“Out, Bond.”

“Is this one of those word association games?” Q doesn’t look up from his screens when Bond sits himself down across Q, uninvited. “In?”

Q makes no move to give a response and instead, concentrates on thinking about how two weeks in the sun with no work, no strange magazine subscriptions delivered to his door under names like Chlamydia Fairyprincess and _no Bond_ will finally feel like. 

“Do you not want the tea?” Bond asks hopefully.

“Does it have formaldehyde in it?”

“You might want to have it checked, I can’t remember.”

Q drinks the tea because his own has gone cold and like it or not, death is actually a better option than lukewarm tea.

“What are you here for, Bond?” Q asks once he’s established that he isn’t going to pass out anytime soon from poisoning and wake up registered as a patient named Iam Batman in a hospital somewhere. Much trial and error has made Q learn not to not apply limitations on Bond.

“Can’t a colleague wish another colleague well when said colleague is going away on holiday soon?”

“Then do your well-wishing and be off, I have work to do.”

“Have a good trip, Q.” Bond stands to leave then and Q actually pulls the bottom drawer of his desk open to check that his passport is still in there. 

It is. Good. But not that good, because that means Bond is up to something else.

“Bond?” Q voices out when Bond is just about halfway out the door. “If I see you on that ship, I _will_ make sure to throw you overboard.”

Bond just smiles. Q sends the remains of the tea up to Biotech for testing.

  


* * *

  


120 hours and a clean drug test later, Q is luxuriating on the deckchair of his private balcony with the vastness of the Atlantic ocean sprawled out, infinite at his feet. So far, he’s been blessedly welcomed aboard as John Smith and no embarrassing items have been sent to his room under equally embarrassing names, which means that Bond isn’t anywhere in Q’s immediate vicinity. Sun, sea, no threats to the civilised world that he has to neutralise and no Bond.

For now, life is good. 

Life is very, very good.

That is, until something or more likely, someone decides to hover over him and block the sun out.

“Bond,” sighs Q without even bothering to open his eyes. “Please do move out of the way.”

“Aren’t you surprised to see me? Or…not see, at the moment, but details are such a chore.”

“Aren’t _you_ supposed to be getting shot at in some third world country?” Q snaps in return and Bond moves out of the way, Q settling a little deeper into his chair.

Q is at peace. Q is calm. Q is the very epitome of Zen and Q will not try to shoot Bond in the neck because that will get blood all over the deck, which will be difficult to explain to housekeeping later.

“I was in the area so I thought I’d drop by and say hello.”

Q cracks an eyelid open at this before suddenly deciding that the view is indeed worth using both eyes. Next to him, Bond is sprawled out on the other deckchair in nothing but a very small pair of swim shorts.

“MI6 sent you to the Caribbean?”

“I was in Cuba.” 

“Ah.” Q makes himself look away and close his eyes again, the very picture of disinterest. “Well, since you’re here, be useful and pass me my Mint Julep, will you?”

Of course, it arrives in Q’s hand completely empty. Q just throws ice at Bond.

“I’ll order you another one.”

“And have it delivered to Mr.Willie Stroker in room 589?” Q snorts over the sound of Bond’s undignified laughter. “I’d think not.”

“You can just tell me your actual name and be rid of me, you know,” Bond says easily as he flicks bits of ice off his bare chest. Q steals another look and yes, yes the drops of water there is _glistening_. Goddamn James Bond and goddamn the Bahamian sun. “Unless of course, you don’t want to be rid of me.”

“Your delusions are entertaining,” comes the cool reply. “Do you have more of them to share?”

Bond undulates, catlike on his seat and Q rolls his eyes at the sight, though he must admit, it’s very nice sight. Q has given the same reaction to much worse things in his life.

“Come on, Q,” Bond is saying as he stretches in the sun. “I won’t even tell anyone.”

“Give me one good reason why I should tell you my real name and maybe I will.”

Bond stops mid-stretch, a look of surprise on his face that Q merely smirks at. 

“One chance, Bond,” Q sighs before he tips the remainder of the ice into his mouth, speaking around one melting cube. “You’ve caught me in a magnanimous mood today, so you’re getting one chance. It will do you good to think long and hard about what you’re going to say, though.”

“Is it just me or was that a sexual innuendo in there?”

Q doesn’t exactly throw the glass at Bond’s head but he mimes it all the same, Bond laughing again before Q sets the glass down to laugh as well. God, it must be sunstroke, or the fact that they’re floating in the middle of the ocean with nothing to do.

“Okay, fine,” Bond says once he has sobered up. He has the back of his head pillowed on laced palms and Q crunches the ice in his mouth. “I give you a reason, you give me your name?”

“And you leave me alone.”

“Can’t guarantee that.”

“Then you can get off this ship.”

“Okay, I rephrase. I don’t attempt to guess your name any more and put you in hilarious situations.”

“And you cancel all those magazine subscriptions?”

Bond looks reluctant, but he nods all the same. Q looks thoughtful.

“Deal,” he finally says and Bond _beams_. “You get one go, so do try your best not to be too disappointing.”

  


* * *

  


On the first of December, M walks into Q branch and he’s absolutely _livid_. Bond, on the other hand, is tanned.

“Would you care to explain where the bloody hell you’ve been?” he demands and Bond merely shrugs, brown as a nut. 

“In order? Labadee, Falmouth, George Town and Cozumel.”

“Also, the Bahamas,” Q offers unhelpfully from where he’s making tea at the pantry. M looks at the two people who are supposed to be MI6’s best employees with matching suntans and decides that no, he doesn’t actually want to know what happened.

  


* * *

  


Later, when Bond is waiting outside M’s office to personally hand over his debriefing report from the Cuban operation, Moneypenny corners him with a letter opener.

“Out with it, then. How did you get Q to give it up?”

“Contrary to popular belief, he’s not actually a vir–“

“His name, you pervert,” Moneypenny sighs. “What did you do to get his name?” The sharp end of the letter opener is pressing dangerously close to Bond’s jugular and Bond holds his hands up in mock surrender.

“He asked for why I wanted to know and I gave it to him.”

“That’s it? It was that easy?”

“I wouldn’t call it easy, if I were you.”

“I can’t imagine you being able to give him any sort of reason that he’ll find satisfying enough, but…do tell.” 

“Put the letter opener down and I will.”

The letter opener goes back onto the table and Bond straightens his collar, smirking all the while.

“I told him,” he says very slowly as Moneypenny leans in closer to hear. “That a letter…”

“A letter?”

“Would be awkward to call out during sex.”

**Author's Note:**

> Most of the names used were sourced from [here](http://thechive.com/2010/06/25/parents-can-be-cruel-to-their-kids-and-hilarious-20-photos/) :D

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic of] million dollar question](https://archiveofourown.org/works/719859) by [pikachumaniac](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pikachumaniac/pseuds/pikachumaniac)
  * [Book cover for Million Dollar Question by Skylights](https://archiveofourown.org/works/768327) by [catonspeed](https://archiveofourown.org/users/catonspeed/pseuds/catonspeed)




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